


The dangerous book for boys.

by orange_crushed



Series: The dangerous book for boys. [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-15
Updated: 2011-04-15
Packaged: 2017-10-18 02:49:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orange_crushed/pseuds/orange_crushed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It ought to be weird but it isn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John dreams about the lights.

"Be good," she says. He can feel her hand on his face, the wet palm against his cheek. It's so warm. It's then and it's before, the way she used to rest it against his forehead when he was sick or almost sleeping. Everything is bright and cold, freezing, except for her; there are lights, soft in the puddles and blinding in his eyes. "John," she says, and he wakes up, face-down in the mattress, clenched and knotted in the sheets, in the stillness of his room. He's sweaty and fuzzy-headed and he can hear the television from downstairs, the high sound of audience laughter and the melodic whine of commercial tunes. He puts his cheek back to the pillow and breathes through his nose.

He doesn't go back to sleep: not yet.

 

 

There is only one seat left in biology lab. John shifts his bag off his shoulder and stands at the front of the class, staring back into the empty seat, the last one in the row. There is already someone sitting at the opposite end of the table, but there are books and slides and petri dishes spread out across the length of it, in all directions. There is an unlaced man's shoe sitting on the edge. There does not appear to be a foot attached to it.

"You can sit with us," says Mike. He gestures at the already crowded bench; Mike and Mike's girlfriend and Mike's girlfriend's friends. John looks back again at the empty seat. There is a crooked stool tucked under the table, and it already has someone else's tattered schoolbag balanced on top of it. "No, really," adds Mike, under his breath. "No need to go sit- in the back."

"It's alright," says John, mildly. "There's one open."

He is halfway there when he notices the boy at the end of the last bench is staring at him, from around the eyepiece of the microscope, as if he is trying to look busy and serious and not at all interested. There is a thick shock of curly black hair sticking out from his skull in all directions, fleeing the scene of the crime. He looks at John and then looks away, peering down at a slide. John stops in front of the stool and gives the tattered bag a meaningful look. "Hello," he says. "Do you mind if I-"

"No."

"I'm sorry?"

"No, I don't mind." The dark-haired boy looks up, considering him; he is very pale and angular and wild-looking. His eyes go up and down John, and then past him, and then away again. There is something in his manner that John thinks is held-in curiosity, and a simmering aggravation at being interrupted. But John suspects he hasn't caused it. No, it's more of a general aggravation at the universe, the kind of broad resentment older people hold against iPhones. John watches him grab his bag and dump it unceremoniously on the floor behind him. "Don't disturb the samples. You'll ruin weeks of growth."

"Can I disturb the shoe?" John asks. He gets another long, awkward stare. "This shoe. The shoe that's sitting where I'd like my elbows to go."

"Ah."

The shoe gets put back on the foot it belongs to, and John sits down, pulling out his single flimsy notebook and solitary pen. He arranges them perfectly side-by side. There is a brief silence, and when John turns his head, the unkempt alien beside him is still looking at him with a bemused expression. "Sherlock," he says, suddenly. It seems like an introduction, so John extends a hand.

"John," he says. They shake on it, solemnly; Sherlock's hands are cold but firm. He lets go a little too soon, and John is left in midair for a second. He ducks for verbal cover, dropping his hands into his lap. "So," he says. "Nice ornamental fungus. Formerly a tuna sandwich?" Sherlock nods his assent. "What are you growing it for?" It's fairly disturbing, the way Sherlock's eyes light up. It must be the right question. He gestures wildly in front of him and holds the mold samples terrifyingly close to John's face and rattles off a series of conclusions that seem pulled from midair, but that somehow have John nodding at the sense of it all. Sherlock stops for breath, eventually, and asks that fatal question, _but what do you think_? "I think-" John says, and frowns. Sherlock frowns, too, obviously assuming that he's stalling for time. "Hang on," he says. "Did you just call that patch _aspergillus fumiwhatsis_?"

"Aspergillus fumigatus," Sherlock corrects. "It's a species of toxic mold, commonly found on starchy-"

"What are you doing in here?" John asks. "I mean, in this class." He points to the board. "We're supposed to be working on mitosis, that ought to be plenty interesting for you." The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitches up, slightly. It's a thin, self-conscious sort of smile. John gets the feeling he's out of practice.

"I'm hardly in this class," he says. He looks at the clock. It's two minutes to the bell. "Are you hungry?"

"Starving," John sighs.

Sherlock stands up, slinging his threadbare bag over one shoulder. The shift in perspective is startling; he really is ridiculously tall. "Oh," says John. "The class thing. That wasn't a joke about your superiority."

"There's a deli on the south corner, outside the school gates. Their tuna salad has green olives in it, which some people find off-putting. You're not one of them." He nods at the samples getting fuzzier by the minute. "And you already have a more than competent grasp of mitosis."

"All true," says John. "But skiving on the first day-"

"No better time. Tell them you were lost," Sherlock says, imperiously, and sweeps out, past the row of desks, shoving the door open and letting it clatter shut behind him. The other students watch him go out of the corner of their eyes. John sits for a long minute and then, very calmly, puts his notebook and his pen back in his satchel. Sherlock is waiting in the hall, leaning against the bank of lockers and looking at the announcement board with bleak disinterest. He turns around abruptly to look at John. There's something pleased and open in his face. It looks almost like surprise, but then, it couldn't be. "Good man," he says. Then a beat. "Do you have any cash on you?"

 

 

The eat their lunch ("On the house," Mr. Papaioannou insists, sliding a stuffed plastic bag across the counter at Sherlock, God knows why) in the park, sitting on top of a bench covered in half-hearted graffiti about somebody named Sherri. John throws his crusts to the pigeons, and Sherlock talks nonstop. First it's a lecture on the nervous tics and various peccadilloes of the teachers John's going to meet, and then it's about his latest project to determine the source of the smell in the locker next to his (hence the decomposing sandwiches) and then, finally, it's about the people passing by. It ought to be weird but it isn't.

"That woman," he says. "Freshly applied makeup, new and uncomfortable shoes in an eye-catching color. A plain bag, large, soft-sided, obviously carrying a change of clothes."

"Job interview?" John guesses. "Headed to the gym?"

"There's a tag sticking out of the zipper," Sherlock says, directing John's gaze. "From the color and logo placement, it's a very high-priced lingerie brand."

"I'm going to pretend like it's perfectly normal that you know that," he grins. "Midday shag, then?"

"Notice how she's glancing around. Skittish, preoccupied, looking too long at every middle-aged suit that passes by. Her husband works in the city. She knows consciously that she's not going to run into him en route to her lover's, but fear is never so logical." He grins, really pleased with himself. "So," he agrees. "Midday shag."

"Me next," says John, half-joking. "Only it's cheating, you know a bit too much already. Male, student, skiver, fan of green olives." Sherlock goes very still beside him, looking straight ahead. He doesn't speak. "What?" asks John. "Come on, what?"

"That man in the squashed hat," Sherlock muses. "Recently developed eczema, or a more persistent problem?"

"No, but really," John says. "What?"

Sherlock sighs.

"Transfer student," he begins, haltingly, still staring at the sidewalk. "No mystery there; we're five weeks into the semester and you've just appeared. You've changed schools before. But you're not a delinquent. I don't have to explain my observations about your clothes, your belongings. For financial reasons your family's resettled closer to your extended relatives. You're not the only Watson in class; Mike is your cousin, perhaps second cousin." John stares down at his hands, folded in his lap. Sherlock's voice is neutral, almost soft. "You flinched, barely noticeably, at the smell of alcohol on the cashier's breath when I bought cigarettes. Your parents'- probably your father's- drinking has gotten more serious. You've taken on responsibilities. You have a younger brother, judging from the field trip permission form stuffed inside your wallet. Harry Watson, though reading the name was secondary. You'd hardly be granting yourself permission to visit the zoo."

"Only emotionally," John says. He's light-headed. He twists the end of his sleeve between his thumb and forefinger. He ought to be telling Sherlock to shut up. He ought to feel something. He doesn't. "Is that it?"

"Yes," says Sherlock. He stands up and crumples his sandwich wrapper in one hand. "That's usually it." He reaches down and fiddles with the strap of his bag, as if he's about to turn and walk away. John lets out a short, embarrassed laugh, and Sherlock glances at him sharply. John thinks he must look ridiculous, giggling like a maniac about his dad's drinking, the shabby ends of his trousers, whatever. All of it. Sherlock is still staring at him. There's something strained and unhappy in Sherlock's eyes, though his face is impassive. "There's no need-"

"I thought for sure," John interrupts, still chuckling unsteadily, "that you were going to say something like, _wanks solely with left hand_ , Jesus!" Sherlock gapes at him. "I mean, not that I- with the lingerie thing, before- there are some things I just hope you can't tell from looking at me."

"You're not angry."

"No," John says, honestly. He should be. He thinks about that for a moment. Having all of it laid bare like that, the sordid, stupid details. It's almost a relief. Someone else, knowing. Someone who doesn't seem to give a rat's arse one way or the other. "I'd prefer you didn't repeat it to everyone, but- no. I'm not angry. Everything you said was true. Mostly true. And basically, amazing."

"Amazing," Sherlock repeats, slowly. That gawky, startled smile is budging up the corner of his mouth again, like it's shoving the frown right off the edge of his face. Violently. "Wait- mostly true?"

"Harry," says John. "It's short for Harriet."

"Of course," Sherlock breathes, delighted. " _Harriet_."

"Just try and call her that," John adds. "She'll kick you in the bollocks. She's only eleven, and her legs are almost as long as mine."

"That's not an accomplishment," Sherlock says. John nods serenely and climbs off the bench and then chases Sherlock around it, trying to kick him in the bollocks on a matter of principle. He misses, but he wasn't really trying. "You're a midget," Sherlock coughs, after a few laps. John almost reminds him about the five cigarettes he chain-smoked half an hour ago, but settles for pushing him backwards onto the bench. "The Lilliputians would keep you in a jar."

"But what a jar," he says, amiably. He looks up at the sun. "Time to head back?"

"I suppose." Sherlock scowls, but drags himself up and shoulders his bag. "I'm dying to hear all about the thematically vital suffering of Jude Fawley." He rolls his eyes heavenward.

"Lit next?" John asks. He checks the schedule wrinkling in his back pocket. "Same for me."

"Well," says Sherlock. "In that case, I'll try to stay awake." He does. They both stay awake, since he ends up poking John with a pencil through the back of his seat, repeatedly, supposedly to test his ability to recite classic passages under mental and physical duress.

"Nobody's ever going to torture me while I read from _Jude the Obscure_ ," John complains, later. "It's not a useful skill."

"You'd be surprised."

"I already am," says John.

 

 

It all happens ridiculously fast.

The first day is skipping class and tuna salad and uncomfortable revelations, and suddenly Sherlock is waiting outside the back door when the last bell rings, falling into step beside John and rambling about decay rates and the school's lack of support for intellectual curiosity. "Threw them out, did they?" asks John. Sherlock scowls harder, if that's even possible. John tells him that he's got to pick up Harry and Sherlock just nods and keeps walking. They stand together outside the primary school gates and Sherlock does an uncanny impression of their lit teacher, dissects the way he stands (a slipped disc in the past and a lot of sleeping in armchairs at the present, Sherlock's assumption), and the strange stains on his tie and the pinched way he says everyone's names, and John is still laughing like a maniac when Harry walks up and tugs on his sleeve.

"Who's this?" she asks, immediately. She and Sherlock stare at each other suspiciously from either side of John, like a stork and a ferret having some kind of tense face-off. Maybe he shouldn't think so, but it is basically hilarious.

"This is my friend," John says, before he knows he's even going to say it. Sherlock doesn't disagree; in fact he doesn't say anything at all. Well, it doesn't seem wildly incorrect. "Sherlock."

"That's a weird name."

"My sister," says John, with an embarrassed little frown. "The soul of courtesy. Just say hello, Harry."

"Hello, Harry," she sing-songs, and ducks out of his reach. She skips away, laughing, and John looks up at Sherlock; Sherlock's face has a strangely crooked expression on it, like two thoughts collided and stuck, and now he's got no idea which is which. John smiles at him without thinking, and then Sherlock smiles, too.

"Come on," says John. "I've still got unpacking to do. You can analyse my footy gear and my stamp collection, if you like."

"You don't have a stamp collection."

"Right again," John sighs.

 

 

From: watson93  
To: do_not_ask  
 _Did you finish your lab writeup?_

From: do_not_ask  
To: watson93  
 _Hours ago. I've done yours as well. Child's play. But your textbook is tedious and inaccurate. Did you know there are eleven typographical errors in this chapter alone? Someone received a paycheck for inserting an extra vowel into pneumoniae. I am trying very hard not to be personally insulted._

From: watson93  
To: do_not_ask  
 _Cheers for that! Yeah, the book is awful. I bet they did it with you in mind. 'What would make Sherlock angriest' they asked each other. Oh I know spelling bacteriophage with a y._

From: do_not_ask  
To: watson93  
 _You're doing that on purpose._

From: watson93  
To: do_not_ask  
 _Doing what_

From: do_not_ask  
To: watson93  
 _http://www.amazon.co.uk/Elements-Style-William-Strunk-Jr/dp/020530902X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8 &qid=1286823146&sr=8-1_

From: watson93  
To: do_not_ask  
 _XD_

 

 

On the Tuesday after next, John is rounding the landing of the stairs, thinking about the shitty pseudo-Bolognese that was on offer at the cafeteria, and idly wondering if Sherlock had ever tried to determine which ingredient it was exactly that gave everybody stomach cramps halfway through the afternoon. Probably. Seems like he's investigated everything that happens in this place. Just yesterday, Sherlock had been trying to determine if color-treated hair burned differently. They'd gotten the fire put out before it spread past the kitchen bins. Mostly. John ambles along, books tucked under his arm, grinning at the memory of Sherlock beating the floor with a fire blanket. He's not really paying attention to the ebb and flow of people around him, and so almost getting pushed over the banister comes as a surprise.

"Sorry, sorry," says the kid who'd elbowed him. He's out of breath. "Fight, downstairs," he pants, and John watches him leap the rest of the stairs and entangle himself in a gathering crowd. The hallway is backed up now, a push of kids coming up from the basement and down from the upper stories, meeting a circle of bodies already stopped, watching in stunned delight. John can't really see what's happening, and doesn't try to get closer. A couple of idiots working out their frustration is hardly-

-a pale face with a familiar shock of dark hair bobs up, taller than the crowd, and gets knocked back down again, and then John is shoving his way through the bodies in front of him, wading in with both arms. He ignores the people that shove back; he only has one concern right now, and that concern seems to be getting his teeth kicked in. Sherlock is on the floor and there's a burly kid in an expensive coat trying to grab him by the shirtfront. The kid's sleeve is torn and there's a smear of blood on his face; Sherlock is doing pretty well, but not well enough. The kid leans down and smashes him in the face and John jumps onto his back, pins his arms behind him and tells him to calm the fuck down. There's a flailing pause, and the thick sound of Sherlock choking around a flattened nose, and then the kid backs John into the lockers, trying to shake him off. Everyone around them seems to be shrieking unhelpfully. John hangs on, twists his foot around the kid's knee, unbalances him until they're tumbling on the floor. And from there it's all over- diminutive or not, John rolls and wedges the kid's arms up behind his back, pins him in the spine with one knee and puts the kid's bloody face into the floor with his free hand, almost gently.

"Breathe," he says. The kid doesn't even move, just coughs out curses into the tile, and then someone else is pulling John up, separating them. It's the assistant principal and the track coach, hauling them up by their elbows and demanding to know what the hell they're thinking, are they thinking, no obviously they weren't thinking. John looks down at the spot where Sherlock just was. But he's gone, except for a couple of drops of blood. John sighs and puts his hands up and lets himself be carted away.

He ends up in Lestrade's office, facing the principal's even stare with a degree of calm he didn't know he possessed. _I'm losing my mind_ , he thinks. _Right over the edge._ It's definitely come sooner than expected.

"Bit of a rough start, John." Lestrade says. John nods. "This is- what, your third week?"

"Yes, sir."

"You were at the Moulton School before this, weren't you?" There's a file folder on top of the desk, and John can only assume it's his own. "You've an interest in biology and medicine, it says in here." Lestrade taps the folder. And then he grins. "It doesn't mention wrestling club, but after your little demonstration in the hall, it doesn't have to." John stares at him, not really seeing the humor, and Lestrade leans back, still smiling. "It's alright, John. I'm not ignorant of the circumstances. You'll serve your detentions, and that'll be the end of it. Sherlock, on the other hand-"

"Sherlock?" John says. His voice sounds high and thin and obviously false in his ears. "Was Sherlock there? I didn't see him."

There's a silence.

"Well," says Lestrade.

"I don't remember seeing him," John continues, awkwardly. "Today." Oh God, he really is digging this hole and falling into it, isn't he? He stares at the name plate on the principal's desk and tries not to feel transparent. Sherlock is going to owe him a ridiculously large favor, if this even works.

"This is new." John glances up at Lestrade, who is sitting back with his arms folded. He doesn't look angry. Not at all. "You know, I've watched a lot of people sit in that seat and lie about Sherlock Holmes," he says. John's face must go blank, because Lestrade lets out a grim little chuckle. "Oh, if you don't understand yet, you will soon. Like I said. I've heard a lot of things about Sherlock. Some of them true, some not. But I don't think I've ever watched anyone sit there and lie _for_ him."

"Sir?"

"And so badly," he adds, and John puts his face in his hands. "Cheer up. Sherlock's not my problem at the moment. Go back to class. You'll report for detention after the last bell, and tomorrow if we're lucky, there won't be a fight or a mysterious hair fire in the kitchens or anything at all. I'd like a nice, boring week," he says pointedly, though John is beginning to doubt that particular warning is aimed at him. "Go on." John stands and shoulders his bag and turns back, before he opens the door.

"Thank you, sir."

"Oh, don't thank me yet," says Lestrade.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There is suspicious activity in the park,  
>  come at once._

John finds Sherlock in the staff bathroom on the third floor. Not immediately; he checks all the student's bathrooms and then the rest, and there's only one that's locked, with an "out of order" sign hanging over it, and the faint sound of uncomfortable snorting coming from behind the door. John knocks, twice, and the honking noise stops. "Let me in," he says. There's a moment, and then the lock turns. John slips inside and locks it again behind him. Sherlock is standing in front of the mirrors with handfuls of bloody tissue pressed to his face. He turns to one side and then the other, considering his reflection.

"I expected more swelling," he says, through a mouthful of paper.

"Just wait," John says. He moves closer. "May I?" Sherlock doesn't answer. "It's alright. I've patched up Harry a million times. Her idea of fun is seeing if she can make the jump between her bedroom window and the neighbor's roof." Sherlock sighs and steps back and lets John pull his hand away to look at the source of the problem. He shuts his eyes when John touches the bridge. "It's not bad," he says. "It's not crooked. How's your breathing?"

"Doctor John," he says, with a slight edge. "It's functioning."

"Yeah, functioning is good, but _good_ is better," John returns. "Do you feel like something's blocking-" Sherlock makes an irritated noise, bats his hands away and turns around, pacing over to the window. "Really mature," says John. "What was that all about, anyway? Starting a riot to gauge crowd reactions?"

"I would _not_ -"

"It's just a joke," John cuts in, quietly. "It's fine. Tell me."

"It was childish," Sherlock says. "People don't like to be faced with the consequences of their actions. Kenneth Block is no exception." John can't help an unexpected chuckle escaping. "What's so funny?"

"The refrigerator that tried to maim you is named- Block?" John grins. "Come on." The side of Sherlock's mouth twitches upward, but that's all.

"Coincidence," he says. "If there was any fitness in names, he'd be called Kenneth Flunitrazepam."

"Gesundheit," John returns. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"It's a powerful sedative and anticonvulsant. Read the newspaper, John. You'll find it under its registered trade name. Rohypnol."

"What? Is that why-"

"Watch." Sherlock pulls him closer to the window. "I picked this bathroom for the view." Down below, there's a minor disturbance in the circle in front of the school. A pair of police cars are sitting parked with their lights off, and two uniforms are packing Kenneth Block into the back of the closest one. He's shouting at someone; probably Lestrade, considering the principal is standing and watching the whole thing with professional calm. "There was an overdose at a party in August, before you arrived. A fourteen-year-old. I traced the supply, but not to its source. I have a feeling Kenneth will be more than happy to share that information, to save his own skin," he adds. There's obvious satisfaction in his tone, bordering on glee. "They'll have found the stash in both his lockers, by now. If they've any sense, they'll pull the list of contacts from his smartphone." Sherlock seems to pause at that, then pulls his own phone out of his back pocket and types furiously on the tiny keyboard.

"Are you texting somebody?"

"Lestrade," he answers, and flips it shut. Sure enough, down below, the principal's hand goes to his breast pocket. "Just reminding him to look for a particular name."

"What name?"

"It doesn't matter." Sherlock turns around, suddenly all smiles, putting his dirty, bloodied hands onto both of John's shoulders. "Are you busy? Harry-sitting? Any plans?"

"I've got detention." John says. Sherlock blinks. "You do remember how that happened, don't you?"

"You impersonated a spider monkey."

"Sherlock," he says, and his tone makes Sherlock pause in his manic skip towards the door. "Are we going to talk about any of this?"

"About how I'm a narc?" He tilts his head. "Or your well-hidden capacity for violence?"

John sighs.

"Neither," he decides.

 

 

They end up on the path by the river, under the railroad bridge, dangling their legs over the railing and chucking Sherlock's cigarette butts into the water far below. He's been smoking one after the other and now his eyes are burning like the red tips, his hands trembling faintly with nervous energy and nicotine, and John keeps wanting to put his own palms on top of Sherlock's to keep him still. Steady. It's- distracting. John shoves his hands further into his pockets and tries to think manly, unrelated thoughts. But maybe it's useless: Sherlock is watching him, he's sure of it, even in the dark. "You're doing it again," John tells him, after a while, staring down at his shoes. They're paused in midair, toes pointed down, like they're floating above the river.

"It bothers you."

"No," says John. He turns and meets his gaze. It's steadier than his hands. "Not really." And then he reaches out and takes the fresh cigarette from between Sherlock's fingers, stubs it out and flicks it away into the air, still glowing like a spark. It arcs up and then down and falls without a splash. They watch in silence.

"Thank you," says Sherlock, at last. John looks at him. "Don't be dense. I was about to eat floor tile when you arrived."

"Oh." John smiles. "That. You're welcome."

"How did she die?" It's abrupt; Sherlock's train of thought jumping the tracks again before John knew they were moving. It's so unexpected that John actually asks _who_? And then he realizes why Sherlock is looking at him with that weird intensity. It's like being under a magnifying glass, when he does that; like someone putting a mirror to your mouth to look down your throat. To search inside. It's almost like care.

"My mother," he says. "You want to know how my mother died." John puts the heel of his hands over his eyes and rubs, frustrated. He can feel a headache starting in the back of his brain. "You probably already went through the albums in my room and looked online for her obituary."

"Yes."

"Why do you-" John stops himself. "No, I know why." He sighs and relaxes his shoulders, blinks out at the city lights beyond. "I'm not ready to tell you," he says, finally. "Alright?"

"Yes," says Sherlock. "I can wait."

Sherlock takes the pack out of his coat and crumples it, ruining the last three cigarettes. He puts it in John's pocket.

 

 

It's almost two in the morning by the time they wander back to John's neighborhood; shabby little brick duplexes in rows, blue television lights still flickering from upstairs windows. The Watsons have the one in the very middle. John's uncle owns it, and keeps promising to do something about the leak in the basement. They walk in the middle of the street, no moving cars in sight, except for one idling unexpectedly in front of John's house. They stop at the corner and John stares at the car- sleek and black and gorgeous, totally posh. Beyond posh. There's a tall young man in a really good suit leaning casually on the hood. The wheels in John's head are turning about as fast as they can manage at this hour. Beside him, Sherlock's expression goes from neutral to utterly murderous.

"Sherlock," says the man, when they've crossed the street. He's dark-haired and dark-eyed and his tie appears improbably tight. He's weirdly young to be dressed that way. He stands up and looks down at both of them. "You didn't call."

"I never call."

"Yes, well." The tall man smiles; it's as narrow as his tie. "Tonight might have been particularly important. Your presence was missed at dinner."

"I doubt that very much."

"You've made your point," he continues. "I'll take you back, now."

"I'm fully capable-"

"It's manifestly clear that you aren't-"

John clears his throat, and they both turn to stare at him. Only Sherlock has the decency to look a bit like he's been caught at something.

"There's a family resemblance," says John. "Verbally." Sherlock's furious eyes start staring daggers in two directions. The tall man looks at John and back at Sherlock, and his smile widens and warms a fraction.

"Quite."

"None at all," snaps Sherlock. "Very well, Mycroft, you can drive me home. But I'll need to stop for a few things."

"And those would be-"

" _Things_ ," he hisses, like the whole conversation is totally irrational and pointless. He stalks to the passenger-side door and flings it open. John stifles a laugh at the sullen expression on his face. This is probably not the moment; Sherlock will kill him in his sleep or between classes if he cracks up now. "John, this is my brother," he says, slightly subdued. He gives Mycroft one more homicidal glare. "He already knows who you are." He sits and slams the door behind him. The windows are too tinted for John to see clearly, but it's obvious that Sherlock is knotted up on the seat, arms folded across his chest, sulking.

"John Watson," he says suddenly, extending a hand. Mycroft takes it and shakes it for a perfectly polite amount of time. No family resemblance there. "Nice to meet you."

"Very nice to meet you, John." Mycroft glances backwards. "I won't keep his grace waiting. He has school in the morning, as do you."

"Night, then," says John.

He stands and watches as Mycroft circles the car and drops into the driver's seat. There's a brief explosion of bickering just before the door shuts and muffles the sound. They pull away from the curb and Sherlock looks back, just once, in time to see John give a little wave. It feels a bit silly. Oh, whatever. John puts his hand down and sighs and trudges around to the back door, unlocks it as quietly as he can. He takes his shoes off and sneaks through the living room. But his dad's there, asleep in his work clothes on the sofa, arm outstretched towards the coffee table. There's only the light from the street to see by. John stands and stares at him for a long minute, listening to the faint sounds of the clock and the hum of the refrigerator. His face is different, younger somehow, when he's sleeping. He looks the way he used to in yellowing pictures, swinging John up by his armpits, holding him above the water, steadying him as he blew out candles. Smiling out to the person past the camera. John takes the afghan off the back of the chair and pulls it over him. His dad shifts and then settles again. "Goodnight," John murmurs. He goes upstairs. There's no sound from Harry's room except for her steady snoring. John shuts the door and changes into pajama bottoms and crawls under the covers. He falls asleep and doesn't dream at all.

It's nice.

 

 

From: watson93  
To: do_not_ask  
 _Are you still awake?_

From: do_not_ask  
To: watson93  
 _Yes._

From: do_not_ask  
To: watson93  
 _John?_

From: do_not_ask  
To: watson93  
 _Did you need something?_

From: watson93  
To: do_not_ask  
 _Not really. Sorry to bother you._

From: do_not_ask  
To: watson93  
 _Don't apologize unnecessarily. It's a verbal tic._

From: watson93  
To: do_not_ask  
 _Fine, I hope it bothered you. I hope you were busy. Curing cancer. I hope you had a test tube of something disgusting in your hand and your message alarm went off and you dropped it_

From: do_not_ask  
To: watson93  
 _You underestimate my reflexes. But you've overestimated my pharmacological abilities. A draw._

From: watson93  
To: do_not_ask  
 _:)_

From: do_not_ask  
To: watson93  
 _You and your unnerving little faces._

From: watson93  
To: do_not_ask  
 _8DDDDDD_

 

 

On Sunday the Watsons go to Mike's family's house for lunch and company and obligation; Sherlock texts John obsessively the entire day, starting at nine in the morning with _This is unacceptable_. John rolls his eyes and turns off the ringer and endures it. His pocket buzzes in the middle of dessert. It's lemon sponge.

 _There is suspicious activity in the park,  
come at once._

John texts back: _no_ , but this is obviously taken as an indication of his boredom and desperate need to get texted back every ten minutes.

 _I have a theory about your aunt's house.  
Please confirm._

He doesn't even want to know. He doesn't. But he types _what is it_ and hits send, anyway.

 _It's boring and full of  
Royal Doulton figurines.  
Obviously. Come at once._

John glances at the mantle and the glass case in front of the fireplace and snickers into his sleeve. When he looks back up, everyone on the other side of the table, his dad and his dad's sisters and Harry, are staring at him curiously. Harry kicks him in the shin, barely, just grazing him with her toe. It's a big table. Thank goodness he still has the advantage of size on somebody.

After lunch they're sent outside with vague encouragements to 'play,' which Harry takes to heart. She careens out of the back door and flings herself up a tree while John and Mike are still shuffling awkwardly around the patio. John's not exactly happy with the situation; inside, they'll be talking about money, about the house, and it's about fucking time that he got to sit in on those conversations. He's hardly the least responsible member of their little trio. Mike starts talking about football and it's easy enough to just sit and nod in the right places. John stews and wanders mentally and agrees with everything until he suddenly realizes that Mike has just asked a very non-football-related question and is now sitting uncomfortably, waiting for a response.

"Sherlock?" John says, blinking. "What about Sherlock?"

"You spend a lot of time with him," Mike says. "I just think somebody should tell you about him, is all."

"Tell me what?"

"He's a weirdo, for starters," Mike says, and when John frowns and starts to talk over him, he puts his palms up defensively. "Yeah, and that's fine, I'm not saying that's not fine. But people don't like him. You already know that," he adds, feinting a jab at John's shoulder. "I didn't see you in the hall, but Pete did. Nice work. Kenneth was a twat." John stares at him, more than a little confused. Mike doesn't seem to notice. "Anyway, he's not unpopular because he's weird, it's because he thinks he's better than everyone else. He used to go to that public school up the hill, until he was kicked out. Pete told me he heard that he was in boarding school before that, someplace fancy, and got the boot there as well. He's always in the offices, in trouble, getting hauled in front of Lestrade. It's alright for him, because his family's stupid rich and he's just playing, but-" Mike trails off. "You don't want to get involved in whatever it is. You should just ignore him. Say you're busy with family stuff. I mean, you never see anyone else around him, right? Nobody wants to be."

John's pocket buzzes.

"Mike," he says, and his cousin looks at him expectantly. "Thanks for looking out for me." Mike beams.

"Yeah, it's nothing-"

"Would you tell my dad something?"

"-sure?"

"Tell him I had to go," John says. He stands up and walks out of the back gate, Mike calling after him, and doesn't look back. He tugs his phone out of his pocket. Missed message, again. _Still in the park. I think one of the elderly chess players has poisoned the other_ , it says. _But I'd like a second opinion._

John walks faster.

 

 

The edge of the park is quiet, past the playground, where there's a herd of knee-high people shrieking and hitting each other with plastic dump trucks. On this side there's just a handful of older men with chess sets or newspapers, and Sherlock.

John stops at the end of the sidewalk, just out of Sherlock's sight, and watches for a minute before crossing the grass. Lets himself look for once, pretends to be inside Sherlock's wandering brain for a passing second or two, noticing everything, discarding the noise. He's sitting on top of a picnic bench, wearing that ridiculous old-fashioned greatcoat that swims around him, that John always thought he stole from an older, bigger, stodgier relative. Now he knows he probably got it out of a boutique window in Covent Garden. But it doesn't change anything, not really; not the way he sits up, knees and elbows knocking together, mouth set, gaze greedy, hands fisted in his pockets for warmth. Not the way his hair is continually mutinying, the way his skin's too pale and his eyes too feverish and his fingers are always twitching for a cigarette. When he's up close, John can't do anything be get caught up in his wake, trailing the comet. But from here it's different. He looks different. He looks the way John sometimes feels. Like there's a distance between himself and everybody else, like he's not sure how it got there or how far it goes.

It goes pretty far, John guesses.

"I skipped the best part for you," John says, and Sherlock turns around. "You know what comes after the lemon sponge?"

"The antacid?"

"Ha ha," John frowns. "No. The second helping of lemon sponge."

"How deliciously _petite bourgeois_."

"You're ridiculous."

" _I'm_ ridiculous?"

"Yes," says John, firmly. "Now tell me about this chess murder. Everybody here looks alive." He glances around; there's one elderly man in a tan overcoat with the paper spread out over his face. It's only kind of moving as he exhales. "Alright, mostly alive."

"It's done," Sherlock says, with a distracted wave. "A misunderstanding."

"How do you misunderstand poison?"

"Liquid vitamin supplement. A benign gesture on the part of an overbearing friend, but typically benign gestures don't end with a man rolling on the pavement, grasping his throat." John makes a concerned noise. "Don't worry. It was merely an unexpected allergy to a filler, no lasting harm done. The ambulance arrived almost immediately."

"Ah." John processes this. "You spent the afternoon watching old people slip each other spiked drinks?"

"Drink, singular."

"You know they have movie theaters, now," John says. "They're the big dark rooms with massive televisions inside."

"Hilarious."

"I thought so." John stands up. "Come on. You've got to be hungry. I don't have to be a genius to know you haven't left this bench all day. You're practically sinking into it." Sherlock scowls, if half-heartedly. "My house is empty. You can come rummage through the cupboards." He pauses, gathering ammunition. "Jaffa cakes were two for one this week."

Sherlock hops down.

"If we must," he says.

 

 

John is in the kitchen, pulling the biscuits down from the top shelf, listening to Sherlock flipping through one unsuitable channel after another and complaining about the inevitable brain-rot of the human species. "Do you want a soda?" John asks, over the noise of Connie Prince hysterically congratulating someone on changing their clothes. "We've got orange and cherry. And some of that tonic water stuff with lime in it."

"Tea!" Sherlock yells.

"You're welcome," John calls back. He puts the kettle under the tap, but the loose handle suddenly becomes the separated handle; the kettle drops into the sink and water splashes out across his shirtfront and soaks his left arm. "Shit." He turns the tap off. "Shit." He fishes the kettle out and looks at it, wondering if superglue works on metal, or if it's just for things like Harry's Barbie heads.

"Yes," says Sherlock. He's standing in the doorway, the sneak. "You could glue it." John sighs and drops it back onto the counter. His wet sleeve itches, so without thinking he unbuttons the cuff and rolls it up to his elbow. Sherlock inhales suddenly and takes a step forward, into John's space. The television blares.

"What?" John asks. Sherlock doesn't answer; instead, he reaches for John's wrist and circles it with his own long fingers, pulls it up to chest height. He tucks the end of the sleeve back. He presses a thumb to the vein in John's wrist, follows it down to the meat of his arm, above the elbow. He traces the lines there, the little white scars that dot and stutter the flesh. There are dozens of them, like freckles, in clumps and scattered constellations. They're faint, barely raised, only shadows on the skin. They can hardly be seen. Sherlock traces them in silence and John doesn't pull away. He can feel the blood in his arm, drawn to the surface.

"Glass," he says. "Auto glass. The cuts weren't deep." His gaze flickers up, to meet John's. "You crawled."

"It seemed like the thing to do."

"John-"

"It was a car accident," he says, calmly. "You know that already. Drunk driver. Somebody else. Before that, dad never-" he shuts his eyes, and inhales, and opens them again. "Harry was with the babysitter. It was just us. Out to dinner, like- I never got them all to myself. We were coming home, and it was raining." Sherlock is perfectly still, waiting. Watching every flicker, every pause and start. It should be unnerving, and it isn't. How often that seems to be happening. "I couldn't get to her, so I crawled. I held her hand. I was thirteen, my reach was shorter than it is now. If you can imagine." His arm is still in Sherlock's grip. Those pale hands are warmer than they look. "So now you know." Sherlock nods, mutely. They stare at each other, neither of them looking at the point where they are still connected. John can feel the nerves in his wrist humming. "Your turn," he says, after a while. "Tell me why you got kicked out of school."

"Eton," Sherlock corrects, uneasily. "I was expelled from Eton."

"Christ, really? You don't do anything halfway. What happened?"

"Somebody died," says Sherlock. His mouth is a thin line. John feels exhausted, like he just ran a race or forded a river. He doesn't know why. He doesn't want to let go. He is pretty sure Sherlock is the only thing holding him up.

"Me too," says John. "Go on," he says. "Go on, keep talking."

"It wasn't my fault. But I needed to understand. They wanted me to forget, and I couldn't forget. It became a problem." His frown makes a bitter little twist. "They were more concerned with bad publicity than with pursuing the truth."

"And what's the truth?"

"That it was murder," Sherlock says. "And the killer is still out there."

"Oh," says John. He is very quiet for a long moment. He remembers Sherlock telling Lestrade to look for a name. One important name. "But you know who it is. And you're going to catch him, aren't you?" Sherlock smiles at him, and there is something very cold and very beautiful in it. It's like looking at the sun through a layer of ice.

"Yes, I am," he says.

"Good." John exhales. "Let me help."

"Of course," says Sherlock. It's strangely reverent. "Of course."


	3. Chapter 3

Monday morning is a little strange; Harry is sullen with him on the way to school, grabbing her lunch out of his hands and refusing to hug him like she usually does at the gates. He supposes that's because he left her at their aunt's house yesterday, stalked out without thinking and abandoned her to dad's bullying sisters. She came back in glossy braids and starched, girly clothes. Probably things his cousin Maria outgrew. Harry'd looked like a little angel, until she'd started hitting him in the stomach. "They pulled my hair," she hisses at him, while they walk.

"They brushed it," John corrects. "It looks like hair, for once."

"I hate you," says Harry, and stomps away.

It keeps going like that. Sherlock is waiting for him outside the deli, engaged in some kind of heated argument with his phone.

"Of all the-" he exclaims, furiously. He sees John and thrusts the phone into his hands and paces in a circle around him. "Text him back and tell him he's a twat. No, tell him he's an imbecile. Two e's, two i's. No brains." John blinks down at the phone, trying to remember what hour of the morning it is, and why he thought it was a good idea to get up and experience it. "Remind him that I'm the one who delivered the chat logs."

"Chat- Sherlock," John says, firmly. Sherlock stops pacing. "Several questions: what. Who. Why."

"In reverse order: because, you don't need to know, and I already told you." Sherlock frowns. "Don't make me repeat myself before I've had a coffee." John shuts the phone and holds it out, glaring at him. Sherlock looks down at it like it's a live chipmunk, or something equally unexpected. "Is this a mutiny?"

"You are not any kind of captain that I know of," John reminds him. "And you're not the only one who'd like a coffee before processing the day."

"Fine," Sherlock grumbles. He bundles his arms against his middle and collapses onto the newspaper box, staring straight ahead. "Hurry up." John goes in and queues up with the crowd at the counter. Behind the cold case, Mr. Papaioannou rolls his eyes and motions at him. About eight second later John is shoved out the front door with a paper tray in his hands: two coffees, one black and one with extra cream, and two buttered rolls, still hot.

"I don't think I paid," says John.

"Mmfh," says Sherlock, mouth full of roll.

 

 

Even school is in on it, John thinks, when they make it to the yard. Trying to complicate his life. There ought to be an orderly stream of people going through the doors, all the late arrivals, a handful of last cigarettes getting smoked and boyfriends getting kissed. But instead there's an enormous crowd standing outside in the loop of the front driveway, shifting from foot to foot and trying to see over a police barrier. Sherlock nearly jumped for joy at the sight of the caution tape, coffee percolating freshly in his veins, and now he's careening through the crowd like a disheveled pinball. John just sighs and follows him, trying not to let him elbow anybody accidentally in the face. There are cars and vans, local police and some unmarked. John can see sniffer dogs and their handlers going in the front door. Lestrade is by the steps, his face drawn and serious, talking to a small circle of cops and people John recognizes from the school office.

"What's going on?" he asks, sort of hoping it'll be taken as a general question. The kid beside him, a haircut carrying a heavy bookbag that's poking into John's spleen, turns around.

"Bomb threat," the kid says, with morbid delight. "Called in this morning."

"They're just saying that," somebody corrects. "It's drugs."

"It's not drugs-"

"Heard it was a gun in a locker, went off-"

"Definitely not drugs," the kid insists. "If it's drugs, we wouldn't have to stand outside, right?" He glances around suddenly, and John tries to see what he's seeing. "Huh. Somebody'd better tell that asshole what a bomb threat is." John stands on his toes, looks over, and sighs. Sure enough, Sherlock has ducked under the tape and is practically running for the door. He's caught under the armpits by two police. John nudges his way to the front and calls for Lestrade, who actually looks up and over at him. John stage-gestures at Sherlock, and Lestrade follows it. He puts a pained hand to the bridge of his nose. Sherlock is released and shoved forcibly back under the caution tape; after a few minutes, his phone buzzes.

 _West entrance. Be quick._

The back door has a cordon, but less of a crowd. No dogs, John thinks. People always want to watch the dogs going in.

"Tell me everything," Sherlock says, when Lestrade has ushered them inside and pushed them into a quiet classroom. All the lights are off; there's the sound of booted feet in the hall, but little else. "Where is it? What is it? When did the call arrive?" He makes an irritated noise and spins around, pressing his face to the glass panel in the door. "No. No time. Let me loose, I'll discover it myself."

"No," says Lestrade. "I have police detectives roaming the halls. How exactly do I explain you to them? Sorry officer, it's just a student of mine, he's got a knack for this sort of thing." He frowns. "No. You stay here. I'll give you as much as I can, because God knows, it isn't much."

"Fine." Sherlock perches himself on top of a desk, feet on the chair. "Go on."

"Call came in five minutes after the first bell. Just long enough for everyone to be seated, coats off. A voice on the other end-"

"Who took the call?" Sherlock interjects. "What sort of voice?"

"I did," Lestrade continues, patiently, "and it was a man speaking, using one of those toy voice changers. Sounded like Mickey Mouse. Said we had ten minutes to clear the premises, or tick-tick-boom. That was it. We cleared the building and the bomb squad moved in. They found zip, so far. Let's hope it stays that way." John nods and agrees.

Sherlock says nothing.

"Did they trace the call?" John asks. Sherlock makes a dismissive snort. "Well, alright, I don't know, isn't that what you're supposed to do?"

"Typically, yes."

"And is this not typical? Isn't it usually a prank? A cry for attention, whatever? Somebody with an exam today, a troubled person, something like that?"

"That's right," Lestrade says. "Most times." There's a knock on the door, and Lestrade looks between them both for a minute, then slips out to answer it. John stares at Sherlock, who for once is too busy examining the tops of the desks and the posters around the classroom to look back at John.

John clears his throat.

"Yes, fine," Sherlock says, finally meeting his eyes. "I have my suspicions. Kenneth was just a steroidal fly at the edge of the web, is that plain enough?"

"Sherlock, that is-" John grins. "The complete opposite of plain." He can't help himself, a laugh bubbles up. "We should work on your translations." And now Sherlock is looking at him like he's a lunatic. But a nice lunatic, maybe. He's almost smiling.

"You-" he begins, and the door clicks open.

"You two," Lestrade says. "With me. Now."

 

 

The three of them are standing in the boy's locker room, staring down at a fancy shoebox that's been hastily unwrapped. There's a green silk ribbon curling on the floor beside it. "It was taped up when they found it. Just sitting right here. Bomb squad opened it, but it's nothing. Just a pair of dirty shoes." Lestrade checks his watch. "You've got about forty seconds with these before they come back to collect. Lucky for you, something more pressing came up. Apparently there's a bigger package taped to the soda machine, and it isn't footwear."

Sherlock kneels in front of it, goes down on hands and knees and stares into the box. After a minute, he reaches forward with his thumb and forefinger to pull out the left shoe. It's a black leather lace-up, spotted and stained. Sherlock turns it over, gently. John can see light glinting off the the soles- no, not the soles. There's bits of glass and metal stuck into the bottom of the shoe, only the bottom. Like somebody put them on and stomped all over a mirror.

"Well?" asks Lestrade.

"Carl Powers," says Sherlock, immediately.

"So it's for you, after all" Lestrade sighs. "I was afraid of that. The weird ones are always for you." John watches Sherlock. There's a dazzling smile creeping up at the corners, that fierce cold grin that puts acres of distance in his eyes. His fingers are trembling slightly, and John knows it's not from fear.

It might be happiness.

"Oh, yes," says Sherlock. "It's for me."

 

 

It's almost perfectly dark, just a long line of green light in the sky where the evening's fading, and the first pinprick stars. They're under the bridge again, perched on the edge of the railing. Sherlock is facing him, his long legs splayed out on either side, hands in his pockets. There's a manic pulse in the tap of his foot on the rail. John knows that he would probably strangle someone for a cigarette right now, the way he's practically vibrating, but he hasn't touched one in John's presence since the last time they were here. He's not really thinking too hard about that.

"When I was fifteen," Sherlock says, "the chemistry lab exploded."

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me."

"It should," Sherlock says, icily. "My protocols are exemplary." John thinks of the fire blanket, and reminds himself to invest in some less flammable clothing. "Anyway, I arrived just after the fire crew did. There was only one person inside when it went up. A laboratory assistant. Carl Powers. Officious, but otherwise harmless. Normal. Boring. Destined for a mid-level university position, two-point-five children, dying in bed at a respectable eighty-three."

"Sounds ghastly."

"Utterly." Sherlock either completely misses the sarcasm in his tone, or more likely sweeps past it. "The explosion was caused by a gas leak. Hydrogen. Human error, they said he didn't read the levels properly."

"But you don't think it was an accident?"

"I know it wasn't." Sherlock leans closer. "They were chasing us out of the hall when the gurney rushed by, and his shoes- they stuck over the side. An exceptionally tall person, Carl Powers. Big feet. Large soles. You saw them today."

"Hm," says John. "The bottoms were covered in glass. Big chunks of metal. From the explosion?"

"Yes. But it doesn't fit. He was supposed to be standing up. Standing up, John." Sherlock huffs impatiently and shifts closer on the railing. "Think about it. He's standing in front of a pressurized chamber. The leak is running inside. Seconds after he opens the valve to release the nitrogen, everything instantaneously ignites. There's no time to turn away, to crouch. There was a single explosion, one burst that would have knocked him backwards, and he didn't get up again. He didn't walk across the floor and stud his soles with glass-"

"His soles were already up," John says, everything suddenly clearing. "The metal got blown into the bottoms of his shoes because his feet weren't on the floor. Lying down?" He stares at Sherlock. "Already dead?"

"Possibly. The coroner's report-"

"How on _earth_ ," John cuts in, "did you get the _coroner's report_?" Sherlock waves away the question.

"It's not important. The report confirmed everything. There was an unusual amount of shrapnel in the knees and thighs, less on the face. If he'd been bending over the controls, it would've been the reverse. And timing was key- there was extensive blood loss. A cold body doesn't bleed. Either he died mere moments before the blast, or during. It's a puzzle, John, don't you see?"

"I suppose," he says. John's not sure that's the word he'd use, but this is Sherlock, and it's different. Everything is. "How did the police miss the shoes?"

"Because the killer cheated," Sherlock scowls. "Powers was loaded into the ambulance and pronounced en route. Somewhere between the site and the morgue, the shoes were lost. Stolen. And along with them, any chance that I'd be taken seriously." John can see the material in his coat pockets bunching as he clenches and knots his hands. "I went directly to the chemistry master, who called me a fantasist. I gave testimony to the police and was ignored. When I called the newspapers, I was given a warning by the headmaster. Useless," he adds. "The staff reporters had already hung up on me. I broke into the closed lab. I was caught. That same night I was packed into a car and told never to come back." John can almost picture it: Sherlock dragged out the door, wild-eyed, still trying to shout over everyone.

"So, alright," he says. "The shoes. Somebody keeps the shoes-"

"The killer keeps the shoes."

"-and gift-wraps them for you, and plants a bomb, and then calls it in himself, because- why? Just so they'll be found?" He shakes his head. "Why would he hand over evidence?"

"Because it's a game." Sherlock sounds totally serious. "He's trying to win. But he needs me to play."

"Some game," says John, sharply.

"It offends you."

"Of course it offends me," John says, his voice rising. His face feels warm. "Murder offends me. It ought to offend you. It ought to offend everybody." Sherlock doesn't respond. "Anyway, what's this all got to do with Kenneth and the drugs?"

"Ah." Sherlock taps his foot on the rail again. "It's not a direct connection. Not yet. Just a feeling. But obviously I've touched a nerve, gotten his attention somehow. Besides, there's more than Rohypnol and GHB making the rounds. Kenneth's supplier has a pet chemist. Or is one. There were warehouse thefts, but they didn't make sense at the time. Potassium permanganate, iodine, yes. But pentaerythritol? Plasticizers? The list was too scattered. Unless you're processing drugs and explosives, both."

"Christ," John exhales. He looks out at the river. "What is this?" he asks, partly to Sherlock, partly to himself. "What are we involved in?"

"We?" repeats Sherlock, suddenly. When John glances back at him, there's a strange look on his face, something he can't decipher. He's caught on something, stuck. Waiting for John to respond, but John doesn't have the slightest clue what he's talking about. Sherlock's brain again, leaping tall buildings in a single bound, leaving him behind. "You keep doing that," Sherlock says.

"Doing what?" Sherlock makes an impatient noise and gestures in the air, like he's already explained himself perfectly. "Oh. Right. You, then," John corrects, and Sherlock's eyes narrow. It's like pushing a button; John can feel a flush of irritation flooding to the surface. "What do you want me to say? Fine, it's you. It's all about you, it's your world, I'm just living in it. Is that what you're telling me?" He slides off the rail and stands up, conscious that Sherlock is staring at him again, still, always. Saying nothing, not even trying to slow this down. Whatever it is. "I offered to help-"

"It is mine," Sherlock interrupts. "The game."

"Forget it, then," John says. "Forget it, it's not my problem."

He walks away and up the path and he can feel Sherlock's eyes still on him, on his back, like the warm print of a hand.

He feels like such an asshole.

 

 

John dreams the lights again. They're far too bright and everything reflects, dazzles in his eyes, and he can't see.

"John," she says. He can feel her hand. He's crawling and everything under him crunches and scatters, and there's a hot, sharp sting in his elbows. He can't see her face. He's so cold, and she's calling, and suddenly there are arms around his waist, hauling him up, and he twists and cries out and pulls away, no, he's not leaving, and then it's Sherlock, shaking him by the arm, Sherlock covered in his blood. His face is too close, and he's white as a sheet. "Wake up," says Sherlock. "Wake up, you lazy-"

John opens his eyes and he's alone, in the middle of the bed, in the plain brown darkness of his room. He feels a tremor coming up in his chest and he shoves his face into the pillow, so that Harry won't hear him cry. He gasps it out, sobs and inhales and lets it pass through him. Afterwards he lies there bonelessly, wondering if he should even look at the clock. Three in the morning. There's a buzzing sound. His phone, face-down on the nightstand, vibrates once. Missed message. John rubs his eyes and flips it open.

It's a text, an hour old.

 _ChemPlex warehouse, on King's Road.  
My source says activity.  
I need you._

There's a second one, sent not five minutes ago.

 _If it's convenient,  
please hur_

It stops there.

John's internal debate rages for about a quarter of a second.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're still sitting like that when the cops surround them.

John sprints through the neighborhood, down beneath the overpasses, past the shopping center and the school, down past the train line that runs behind the estate. He goes until he's out of breath and his legs are burning; he's light-headed and floating, still only half-awake. He jogs along the side of the road, seeing the chain-link fences of the warehouse district in the distance. He's got the map folded up in his pocket, ripped out of his dad's road atlas. How Sherlock expects him to find the right warehouse in the dark is beyond him. He just runs and huffs and tries to keep his breathing steady.

He still feels like an asshole. More so, maybe.

He's on the back road, and there are no trucks moving anywhere that he can see. There's a gate and a fence with a printed sign, ACE TRUCKING. John sighs and keeps going. There's another one further down, with a higher fence, barbed wire, what looks like a security gate with a lighted guard's station. John crouches down and gets close enough to read the warning sign in front of the side parking lot: PARKING FOR CHEMPLEX EMPLOYEES ONLY. All others will be arrested, probably, or murdered in the middle of a school night. John kneels down and puts his hands on the ground, tries to get his heart rate back to normal. When he feels like he can stand up, he looks around the lot first. There's nobody. The guard in the box is facing the other direction, with a magazine in his hand. John jogs around the outside of the fence until the station is out of sight, and then notices something hanging overhead. It's a carpet. A Persian carpet, a really gorgeous one, that somebody's slung up to get over the barbed wire. It's probably worth a thousand pounds. "He's totally insane," John mutters to himself, and climbs.

It only takes a minute to run across the lot and duck behind the shipping containers. He makes his way between them, around the edge, listening for the sounds of feet or conversation. Hopefully not for the sound of Sherlock breaking his face on someone's fist again. There's a metal ladder up the wall of the warehouse, probably to the roof; John clambers up it and stops at the edge. Nothing. He hoists himself over and tries not to slide off- it's at an angle, with a strip of louvered windows towards the peak. He walks and then crawls up to the glass, hands catching on the metal panels. There's a faint light inside, safety strips glowing along the aisles, a couple of fluorescents still burning. There are rows and rows on end inside. Sherlock could be hiding in any one of the stacks. He could have already left, decided it wasn't worth a text to say so. And he could be sprawled out on the floor behind the barrels, bleeding out. There's a flash of movement in one of the side rows, and John's heart pounds. It's a man in a black jacket, with a knitted cap pulled low over his brows. There's a glint in his hand; he's keeping his arm steady as he walks, pressed to his side. He raises his hand to shoulder level, and the outline of the gun is suddenly clear.

John follows him along the roof, going as quietly as he can on the corrugated steel. The man's walking down a narrow aisle, moving swiftly towards the light at the other end. He turns a corner, and John can see a second man's head moving over the top of a row of barrels. He seems to be reading labels. Further down, there's a small blink of movement, like a reflection on the side of a car window. John peers closer, leans further over the glass, and inhales sharply. It's Sherlock. He's crouched within the barrels, taking photos with his phone. He must be out of sight on the ground, because neither of the men change course or yell or walk towards him. John stares down, wondering what the hell he's supposed to do now. A couple of minutes must pass, because his legs start to cramp and his hands are going numb. He thinks about leaving the roof. He watches the first man motion at the second, casually, like he's saying to wrap up soon. The other man nods, and vanishes behind a row of barrels. John sighs and watches Sherlock, huddled down, fiddling with his phone. Texting the police and not him, hopefully.

Then John sees it- the second man, moving slowly through the row behind Sherlock. John can only see his face as it flits between the gaps for seconds at a time. But his eyes are trained on Sherlock's hiding spot. John's throat goes dry, and for a long second he's terrified. He doesn't know what to do. There are bright lights in his eyes, in his pulse. They're blinding.

And then John turns and slides down the side of the roof, runs along the flat edge to a stack of pipes and gutter segments that have been bundled up and left. He grabs a short, heavy segment and runs back up the roof, no longer trying for silence. He doesn't hesitate above the glass, just bashes the pipe against it with all the strength in his arms. The window splinters and shatters and the pipe drops through. It sounds like an explosion; everybody on the floor stares up.

"Hey!" John shouts. He doesn't have a plan. He barely has a thought in his head. "Hey, up here!" he hollers.

A gunshot rings out, whizzing by him, then another; he ducks and slides back down, sprints to the ladder and slings himself down it. He runs along the edge, staying below the windows, trying to find a spot to look in and find Sherlock. There's the sound of a door slamming open, not far away, and running feet. John hides behind a shipping container, presses his body flat against the side. The feet run past him and circle around the corner of the building, heading towards the road. John lifts up and goes slowly around the corner, and suddenly there's a hand on his arm. He whirls and blocks his arms up, almost punching Sherlock right in the face.

They stare at each other, breathing staggered and fast, and then Sherlock reaches out again to tug on his sleeve.

"Run," he says. "Can you-"

They do.

 

 

The man in the skullcap has gone around, towards the guard station, and there's only one way back to the carpet and the exit- back through the shipping containers. They weave through them silently, glancing around corners and motioning each other forward, sprinting quietly between boxes. They're almost in sight of the chain-link when the second man, the man checking barrels, pops up between a gap and stares at them. He looks as surprised as they do, but it doesn't keep him from calling out. Sherlock and John spin and run blindly in the other direction, thudding against the sides of containers, looking behind them. Sherlock takes a sudden left when John goes straight, and then he's running alone, twisting to look between the boxes. There's a shout behind him, and he turns around. He's looking over his shoulder when he slams against a body and tumbles backwards with the impact.

From the ground, on his back, John stares up at the man with the gun. He doesn't move. The man smiles and lifts a phone to his ear. There's a green glow on his cheek for a second, before the display fades.

"Yeah," he says, to whoever's listening. "Alright."

 

 

John can see Sherlock at the end of the row, panting and looking around the corners, trying to get a bearing. There's a very soft click behind John's skull, the floating cold touch of metal pressing his hair down. John can feel the man behind him and the gap between them, he can feel everything. He can hear his heart thudding in his ears.

"Call him," says the man. He nudges John with the barrel again. "Now."

John catches a breath in his throat.

"Sherlock," he calls out. Sherlock turns around with a surprised look on his face that immediately slides into annoyance. Of course. It's pretty bad form to yell out your mate's name at a crime scene. John would laugh, any other time. But Sherlock's about to take a step forward, a step closer. John looks at the flap of that ridiculous coat, the set of Sherlock's shoulders, the pale wrists and neck, peaks of light in the darkness. John opens his mouth for air. "Run," he shouts, suddenly, " _RUN!_ " And there's a pounding crash on the back of his skull. He goes down onto his hands and knees, swaying; his head and his neck feel hot, burning, and there's a trickle of that heat running down under his jacket. He's been- hit with something? The gun. He blinks and his vision swims and he tries to get up. Yeah, definitely the gun. His head feels like it's splitting into a million bloody pieces. He sways back and sits on his heels, and when he looks up, Sherlock is looking down at him. "Oh, you stupid-" John says, and rubs his face with his hands, drunkenly. "You stupid fuck."

"Good evening, gents," says the man with the gun. There's a tinny, humming noise, like someone on the other end of a phone conversation. "He says hello." John looks up at Sherlock, who seems to be blurry around the edges. It hurts to keep his head up. "He hopes you liked your gift."

"Immensely," Sherlock says.

"He says he's glad to see you taking the initiative. But that you ought to be a little more careful, next time. Hold back. You don't want to get to the end just yet. No fast-forwards on this tape."

"Why doesn't he speak for himself?" Sherlock says. "Face me. Intermediaries only complicate things."

"He says you're not ready."

"Big talk for a phone," Sherlock returns. The man actually laughs, and the sound slingshots around John's brain.

"He says I ought to aim lower," the man tells them. John tries to twist around and see what's happening behind him, but there's a stab of cold on the back of his neck, the gun barrel pressing in again. He stills. "Says I ought to hit the spine. Let him live. Says he wants to watch you wheel him around town."

"Shut up," Sherlock hisses. It's so raw that John looks up in surprise, finds Sherlock staring down at him instead of keeping his eyes on the man with the gun. John really wishes he would keep tabs on the gun. There's a flicker of something that goes through Sherlock's eyes, a trembling shadow that John's never seen before. He must be hallucinating, because it's so plain. It goes across everybody's face, but not Sherlock's. Never Sherlock's. It's fear. In the distance, John can hear sirens faintly calling. He closes his eyes, briefly, and opens them to find his vision clearing a little.

"We're done for now," says the man. "We've got what we came for. Did you? He says he hopes he hasn't disappointed you. Discouraged your interest." Sherlock's face doesn't move; it's shuttered again, calm and cold and blank. Beautiful.

"Hardly," he says. He looks up. "Tell him I'll see him soon."

There's the sound of a phone clicking shut.

"He's looking forward to it."

John hears feet moving away, and when he turns around, there's nobody there. He groans and turns back to Sherlock, who is still standing up, watching the spot behind him. The sirens are getting closer. Louder. There's the scraping, mechanical sound of gates opening.

"Sherlock," he says. He sounds like a zombie. "Sherlock," he says, a little more clearly. Sherlock looks down and blinks, and then he's kneeling down, putting his hands on either side of John's head, leaning him forward to examine the back of his skull. His careful fingers press gently at the edges of the wound. John bites his lip.

"Heavy bleeding, but it's probably not fractured. Does that hurt?"

"Fuck- yes, yes, it hurts," John says, and tries to pull Sherlock's hands away. Sherlock doesn't let go, just cups his jaw between his hands and stares at him, his face less than a foot away. His thumbs rest on John's cheekbones.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry."

John doesn't know what to say.

"You're repeating yourself," he says, finally, and Sherlock's face spreads into a smile. They're still sitting like that when the cops surround them.

 

 

There really ought to be a lot more trouble than there is.

John is being herded onto the ambulance and Sherlock is getting cuffed when that posh black car pulls up. There's a brief argument at the gate and then Mycroft is striding up, glancing between John and Sherlock and talking rapidly on his phone. He shuts it and drops it into his pocket and goes to speak with the officer holding Sherlock by the arm. Sherlock is uncuffed and shrugged off. He follows Mycroft up to the ambulance with smugness and disgust warring on his features, rubbing his wrists. Clearly, he's conflicted.

"How's your head?"

"Heavy," John says, honestly. "It's leaking, you'd think it'd be lighter." The paramedic urges him backwards, trying to strap him in for the ride, and John looks at the both of them with something probably close to panic.

"We'll follow the ambulance," Mycroft assures him.

"I'll ride with John-"

"You'll ride with me," Mycroft interrupts, sharply. Sherlock, for once, doesn't look inclined to argue.

At the hospital John is cleaned up and x-rayed and whisked off to a private room. Apparently Sherlock was right: it's a concussion and some bruising, maybe the tiniest hairline fracture, but he'll live. His head feels like it's been wrapped in a roll of paper towels, and they've given him something for the pain. It's turning the world nicely fuzzy. Sherlock and Mycroft are out in the hall, he can hear the sound of their argument through the door. He lies back and waits for somebody to come in and tell him to go home, or that his head's fallen off and it's got to be sewn back on, or whatever. He is unbelievably tired. Sherlock comes in at last, looking pale and furious, until he sees John sitting cross-legged on the bed, smiling like a loon at him. The corner of Sherlock's mouth edges up, probably against his better judgment.

"Are you alright?" he asks. John shrugs.

"I can't feel my knees," he says. Sherlock's eyes narrow with concern, and then he seems to remember the drip going into John's arm. "It's an awfully big room," John adds, conversationally. "They could fit a pinball machine in here." He enjoys the way Sherlock's smile keeps tilting, like an axis. "I'm starving, you know that?"

Sherlock sits on the edge of the bed beside him, facing him. He seems to look over John, all the surfaces and dips and angles, the silly cotton gown and the crazy bandages and the plastic tag around his wrist. John basks in it, soaks it in, lets himself be looked at. He doesn't care if it's strange. If this is strange, to everyone else. It feels familiar and safe, like Sherlock is making sure that everything's still in order. That God is in His Heaven and John Watson is right with the world.

"You misunderstood me," he says, at last. John doesn't even try to catch up. Sherlock clears his throat. "Under the bridge. You kept saying, _we_." John remembers, and he remembers the feeling that boiled in the pit of his stomach. It's simmering now.

"It doesn't matter-"

"It was fine." Sherlock's knee is touching his, through the thin weave of the blanket. "It was unexpected. That's all. I didn't make myself clear. I only meant to tell you, that it was fine."

"Oh," says John. "Good."

Sherlock stays until he falls asleep.

 

 

John spends the next two days trying to explain things to his dad and Harry. He tries to convince them that it was just a prank gone terribly wrong, a boy's dare, something stupid that he will never ever ever do again. It mostly works. It must be the bandages, they look much more severe than they really are. His dad keeps trying to yell at him, and then lowering his voice because he's afraid he'll give John a headache. Harry actually brings him breakfast in bed for two days, burnt toast and a glass of cranberry juice that she's already drunk from. It's sweet. He just lies in his room for most of the day, listening to music or listening to nothing at all, letting his mind wander. He sees Sherlock's face behind his eyelids when he closes them, that brush of fear passing like headlights over his face. He keeps texting Sherlock, leaving him messages on Google chat, but Sherlock isn't answering.

From: watson93  
To: do_not_ask  
 _Recovery is boring. Come over. You can talk over the tv and point out inaccuracies, it'll be fun_

From: watson93  
To: do_not_ask  
 _Hello, are you there_

From: watson93  
To: do_not_ask  
 _I have a head wound I can't come find you myself. My dad will kill me if I step foot outside right now._

From: watson93  
To: do_not_ask  
 _Sherlock_

From: watson93  
To: do_not_ask  
 _Where are you?_

 

 

John misses a week of school, partly because of his head and partly because his dad is really not excited about letting him out of his sight. John doesn't mind, considering the circumstances. It hasn't sunk in yet, the reality of it all. Getting pistol-whipped in a warehouse in the middle of the night, having some lunatic leave gift-wrapped murder shoes in the locker room. He supposes normal has flown out the window. Never to return. It's a strange week, spending nights on the couch with his dad, after work, watching dumb reality television and sometimes talking. It's like a vacation, except that he also keeps going around the house at night, locking the doors and closing the curtains. It helps, if only in his head. Sometimes he sits in the kitchen while his dad makes dinner, frozen stuff at first and then on Friday night, a roast chicken with half a lemon shoved into it.

"I saw it on television," his dad says, looking embarrassed. "Restaurants do it." They eat together, the two of them and Harry, sitting around the table. Harry tells them about a girl in her class with a pet rabbit. She wiggles her nose theatrically and they all burst out laughing, and John watches his dad across the table for a long time.

When he gets back to school Lestrade meets him in the hall, claps him on the shoulder and tells him to stop slacking. But there's something weird in his voice, something tired and held-in. His eyes are kind.

"Go on," he says. "You're already late."

John pretty much dozes through bio, skips gym with a note, walks to lit with a spring in his step. He wonders what the hell Sherlock's been working on that's kept him offline for an entire week. Studying hermits? Exploring Siberia? Well, maybe he's been sitting in warehouses without backup. John doesn't put it past him. He walks into lit and the desk behind his is empty. John sits and waits until the bell rings, and there's nothing. No Sherlock sweeping in late, crashing through the door, stalking in silently with a problem furiously buzzing under his scalp. No Sherlock at all. John stares at the book in front of him for the next forty minutes, without turning the pages. He can't read the words.

He goes to Lestrade's office after class.

"Where is he?" he asks.

"Transferred," Lestrade says. "Westminster School. With his record, bit of a shock, but apparently somebody was holding a place open for him. He's decided to take it."

"What?" John feels warm, dizzy. "When?"

"Got the papers on Wednesday," he says. "I thought you knew, John. Sorry it's come as a surprise." He really does sound sorry. John's hand is shaking. He goes out of the office and walks down the hall, out the door, down the street to the deli. He tells Mr. Papaioannou that Sherlock is in trouble, that he's got to find him, and Mr. Papaioannou nods gravely and tells him he'll see what he can do. John walks the circle of the park and stares at everyone, searches their faces. He goes home, googles 'Mycroft Holmes' ten different ways and finds nothing. John calls the hospital and asks about who got him the private room; he calls the police and asks to speak to Mycroft, that man in the big black car, if they've got his number handy. And then he sits in his room and waits.

His phone rings fifteen minutes later.

"John," says Mycroft. "Not very subtle."

"Where is he?"

"I'm afraid Sherlock is-"

"Where the hell is he?" John demands. "Because if he's already at Westminster, I'll go there myself and throw rocks at the windows until I find the right one."

There is a pause.

"John," Mycroft says, in a perfectly measured tone, "Given what happened, Sherlock feels it best, and I agree, that you should not-"

"Rocks," says John. "Big ones." He's clenching his hand around the phone, he realizes. "He doesn't get to decide what happens to me. What's best. He's not my father." He relaxes his hand. "At least tell him something. Please," he says. He's trying not to sound utterly pathetic, but it's probably too late for that. Mycroft sighs, like he is too old and serious and important for this drama. Well, that's mostly true.

"What's that, John?"

"Tell him he's an idiot."

And Mycroft laughs.

"Ah," he says. He sounds surprised, really surprised, for the first time. "I most certainly will."

 

 

On Thursday Sherlock is waiting for him at his house after school. Standing outside in his coat and scarf, leaning against the building. John gets closer and Sherlock pushes off the wall. John walks past him, unlocks the front door and goes inside. Sherlock follows him, shuts the door after himself.

"No Harry today," he observes, like he hasn't just come back from a poorly-timed disappearance. Like the world didn't mostly fall apart a week and a half ago. John shakes his head and plays along. He shrugs his coat off.

"My dad's taking her to the library. Books about rabbits. She's mad for them. It's the noses."

"Of course." John takes the kettle to the sink and holds it gingerly over the side; the glued handle holds. He fills it up and puts it on the stove. Then he walks back out into the living room, where Sherlock is still standing like a lump in his coat, and pulls him forward by the lapels. He wants to say everything that he's thinking, like _don't you dare_ , and _what do we do now_ , and _you must know that I_ \- but he doesn't. He doesn't know how to start. Sherlock stares down at him. His mouth is twitching, like there's a laugh trapped in there, dying for some sunlight. "Rocks?" he says, finally. "Big ones?" John cracks up and then he cracks up, and they are both laughing like complete morons when John pulls him down by the neck and presses his mouth over Sherlock's. His lips open and his eyelashes brush John's cheek. Sherlock tastes like orange slices, toothpaste and himself. They break apart unsteadily and Sherlock has a hand on his arm, wrapped around him, and he doesn't let go.

"To be fair," John says, "I'm something of an idiot, myself."

"I've noticed," Sherlock retorts, but there's no bite in it. He's not pulling away. He just can't help resisting the vague insult to his powers of observation. John can feel the thaw in his voice, the strange vulnerability. It's very un-Sherlock. It makes John want to be gentle.

"You notice everything," says John.

Sherlock breathes out, and John breathes in.


End file.
